I feel for you, truly: you are a drinker--I love you! And fellows like you like riding up the mounds.
There was one who lived here who had come from Russia, he always would ride up the mounds (he called the mounds so funnily, "hillocks").
Whenever he saw a mound, off he'd gallop.

Once he galloped off that way and rode to the top quite pleased, but a Chechen fired at him and killed him! Ah, how well they shoot from their gun-rests, those Chechens! Some of them shoot even better than I do.

I don't like it when a fellow gets killed so foolishly! Sometimes I used to look at your soldiers and wonder at them.

There's foolishness for you! They go, the poor fellows, all in a clump, and even sew red collars to their coats! How can they help being hit! One gets killed, they drag him away and another takes his place! What foolishness!' the old man repeated, shaking his head.

'Why not scatter, and go one by one?
So you just go like that and they won't notice you.